he RegulrrFelipw* Monthly
I February 1922 price
A HUMOROUS MAGAZINE WITH
A SERgQUS 'PURPOSE
What has become of
girl who used to eat at
home once in a while?
<- CLEVELAND OHIO r-
JACK DINSMORE, Editor
Published by the Merit Publishing Co., 1005 Ulmer Bldg., Cleveland, O.
25c per copy
MERRY CHRISTMAS CORNELIUS
Well, brethren, Christmas is come and gone, and, even
as all of ye, I am now in the process of wearing out the
red neckties presented by the Dear Relatives.
In order to properly celebrate the Happy Yuletide and
the Glad New Year I got drunk on December 23rd and
stayed so until this day (January 4th) when my lady
friend, Stern Necessity, caused me to roll into these
premises to forge out the present consignment of Near
Humor and Sweet Sentiment for you.
A half-hour after I sat down to work, my fat playmate,
Councilman August Kraut came in and took me out to
buy me a seidlitz powder and some lunch.
Kraut is always intolerable, but this particular noon
he was the Living Death.
The louse sat himself down in front of my poor half-
turned stomach and proceeded to stow away odoriferous
corn beef and cabbage.
Then, to add insult to injury, he began to feed me with
the smart sayings of that tough little seven-year old kid
of his, Cornelius.
Now, of all the tortures known to man, I'm telling you
that the worst is that of the Proud Daddy relating the
wise cracks of his Hopeful Bimbo the day after Christ;
mas. I shall spare you Kraut's monolog, only suffer
with me, dear readers, while I repeat to you but one ex-
ample of the sagacity of Cornelius.
As related by Kraut, the night before Christmas a
neighbor's boy, desiring to play a joke on Cornelius,
went to a livery stable, picked something up from the
floor of the stable, and deposited the pickings in Cor-
nelius' Christmas stocking.
The next day Kraut asked Cornelius :
"Veil, sonny dear, vat did Santa Claus bring you?"
"I think it was a pony," replied Cornelius, "but he ran
A Krazypome by Mrs. Dingleberry
'Twas a nice October morning
One September in July,
The moon lay thick upon the ground
The mud down in the sky,
The flowers were singing sweetly
The birds were in full bloom,
I went down in the cellar
To sweep an upstairs room.
The time was Tuesday morning
On a Wednesday just at night
I saw a thousand miles away
A house just out of sight,
Its walls projected backward
The front was in the back
It stood alone between two more
And it was whitewashed black.
The earth may not be flat, but the beer is.
ANOTHER BAD GUESS WHY GIRLS GO WRONG
Jazzy Tunes Send Girls Wrong, Minister Says
By United Press
Chicago, Dec, 19, 1921 — Jazz music is why girls go wrong, Rev. Philip Yarrow,
head of the Illinois Vigilance Association, charged today.
"From the dance palaces of Chicago," said the Rev. Yarrow "from the dance
rooms in country towns come girls whose entrance into the life of moral subnor-
mality was accompanied by the music of the jazz orchestra."
The minister said his association in the last year had traced the downfall of 1000
girls to jazz music.
"Feeble-minded morality is the first result of the weird, neurotic strains of the
so-called jazz orchestra/' he said.
The poor Blue Law Bimbo — Narrow Yarrow!
He is dead from the navel both ways.
Like the other Bony Boys of his ilk, he thinks that
the eager, lively, youthful things of life are wrong be-
cause he is too dried-up to appreciate them.
This is a great human mistake that is older than the
It is the eternal funny tragedy of the hatred of the
Poor-blooded for the Rich-blooded.
Moreover it is bad science.
■ Narrow Yarrow doesn't know any more about the
science of acoustics than a nigger porter does about Tran-
As a matter of fact, jazz music is less incitive to im-
morality than the passionate, dreamy strains of the old-
My Great Uncle, in the year 1881, seduced a blond toe-
dancer while doing the quadrille with her to the tune
of "Believe Me When All Those Endearing Young
In my green and studious days, I used to read heavy
volumes by German scientists examining the reason why
the wailing music of Italy provoked the senses.
Not long ago I was in a movie show. The picture was
that good old Methodist tear-squeezer, "Way Down
East." The incidental music was "Darling I am Grow-
ing Older." And you ought to have seen the sweethearts
smacking each other in the dark !
Jazzy music sensuous. Bunk, say I ! There was more
immorality in Paris in 1821 to the strains of the minuet,
than there is in Chicago in 1922 to the strains of the Liv-
ery Stable Blues!
As we told you before, Dear Children, the Perverts of
Prohibition are not in business to promote Morality, but
to stifle Joy.
No wonder we who are joyful hate their guts !
THE HANDY LOVER
Mandy and Liza, two delicious colored wenches were
holding a conversation.
Even like their white sisters, they were discussing the
eternal subject of men.
Said Mandy to Liza :
"Does your Sambo gesticulate much when he makes
love to you ?"
"Explain yourself, Black Lady. That am a great big
word, gesticulate. What do you all mean by that in plain
"Why, does he use his hands much?
Oh, Mandy, Mandy, Lordy Goodness Sakes ! Now you
said something! Does he? Does he? I'll say he does !
'I Never Cared for Liquor Till America Went Dry.'
ATTABOY'S BULLY BREEZES
from Tia Juana, Mexico
Well Brothers, Hot Dog Devoured Tia Juana. Every-
thing is running along here per schedule and everybody's
enjoying the privileges granted them by the Constitu-
tion of the American Government so much that they have
to go to Mexico to enjoy Life, Liberty and the Pursuit
The races opened early in the winter as was planned
but personally I would of had more to be thankful for
if the races had been postponed at least another day.
As Morvich wasn't racing I didn't know of anything
sure to bet on in the way of a horse, so I took a tip from
one of my best friends, that a certain horse named Moon-
light was sure to win. But as soon as I had placed my bet
on Moonlight it turned cloudy, and so far nothing has
been seen of Moonlight since she left the post. But she is
expected in on the first clear night. So the only thing that
I had to be thankful for was that I didn't bet any more
than I did.
That night everybody celebrated the opening of the
racing season, at a masquerade ball. It turned out to
be just another race to see who could drink the most of
their favorite brand. No winner has as yet been an-
nounced, as more than two-thirds of the crowd haven't
sobered up yet.
I went in the costume of a doorkeeper. I hadn't been
on the door very long when a beautiful young girl tried
to get past me without any costume on whatever. I
stopped her and said, "I'm sorry, Little Flapper, but you
can't go in there unless you come in costume to represent
some person or some object, the more simple the more
"All right," chirped the young Chippie, "I'll get a make
up on and be right back."
Sure enough in about five minutes, this Broad comes
back and when I lamps her I get knocked for a Goal. For
all this baby had on was a pair of black gloves and a pair
of black shoes and a broad grin.
"How's this, Cuty?" she asks, "Is it simple enough for
"No," I confess, "That beats me; what's the big idea?"
"Well, you poor Sap," she says, "I represent the Five
Believe me, Hot Dog fans, you ought to be in Tia Juana
with your old playmate, Attaboy, now.
The Regular Fellow Poet
Editorial by Jack Dinsmore
Burns has no rival in the art of singing the soul into song and setting the
heart to music. His poetry is pure passion. Other lyrists are literary at their
best; when Burns is literary he is at his worst.
His note falls like the note of the lark straight from the throat of life. It is
not an imitation of life, but life itself running into laughter and tears.
Being life, it is not a grey moral thing, but a lovely riot of good that is not
wholly good, and evil that is not wholly evil.
— JAMES DOUGLAS
Bobby Burns, the sweet singer of flowers and girls'
The immortal laureate of Youth and the things that
Youth loves — Wine and Wenches and Roses.
He was just a gay, good lad, hard-boiled and soft-boiled
10 HOT DOG
by turns, just like you and I.
At a time when Scotland was overrun by thousands of
;our clergymen preaching hellfire and by hundreds of war-
ring religious sects who hated each other more than they
loved God — there in the drab atmosphere of Eighteenth
Century Britain sprang the unrivalled artist who made
poetry not out of books but out of Life.
But more than that — wait. He wrote his verses not
in the stodgy English of the court and the pulpit, but in
the homely dialect of the lanes of Kerrymuir and the gut-
ters of Glasgow.
Dear readers, Bobby Burns wrote SLANG. And he
drank whiskey, plenty of it. Scotch whiskey, 120-proof.
And, as to the sweet Highland Lassies — you know how
free he was with them.
But then it has always been so. Poetry has ever
sprung, not from the vestry room but from the alehouse.
Shakespeare was a foul-mouthed poacher and stage-
door Johnnie. You remember his vindictive "If Lucy is
lousy, then lousy is Lucy." Dante was a knife-fighter.
Francois Villon, "le pere du nous tous," " the father of us
all" as French poets call him, finished his life on the gal-
In the good old days when religion was liberal, when
Wine went with Worship, there were learned men of
the church, friars and pastors who loved books and the
tender things of the heart that are enshrined in books.
Said St. Thomas a Kempis : "Everywhere have I
HOT DOG 11
sought Peace, but nowhere have I found it save in a cor-
ner with a book."
And do we not all remember the backrooms of saloons
and the Old Soaks who used to congregate there? Many
of these Soaks were post-graduates of the greatest uni-
versities and spouted Latin hexameters over their tod-
But it is in the rural districts, the backwoods where the
Blue Law Dominie rules unchallenged, that the most
swinish ignorance is to be found.
All the tenderness and all the recklessness of Life Mili-
tant and Youth Triumphant are to be found in the poems
of Bobbie Burns. One day he writes a boisterous epi-
taph on a dead country evangelist like this :
Below these stanes lie Jamie's banes,
O Death, it's my opinion,
Thou ne'er took such a bletherin' bitch
Into thy dark Dominion!
And the next day he writes the loveliest ballad in the
English tongue :
Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes,
Flow gently I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stock dove whose echo resounds through the glen,
Ye wild, whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den ;
Thou green crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
12 HOT DOG
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
WHAT'S THE USE
It was the driver of a van
Who to his offspring said:
"I'm just a rough-necked workingman
Wot labors for his bread.
But you should learn to read and write
Reform the world and sich,
To wear clean shirts and talk polite,
And some day you'll be rich."
And so the lad to school was sent,
Where, as the years rolled by,
He learned what Transmutation meant,
And how to live to die
And presently he could discuss
Such really highbrow themes
As Differential Calculus
And Freud on Foolish Dreams.
Meanwhile the rough-necked workingman
With fond paternal joy
HOT DOG 13
Continued driving of his van
To educate his boy.
And often he would mop his brow
And joyfully declare :
"That kid o' mine ten years from now
Will be a millionaire !"
Today the kid is keeping books
At ten a week for pay,
And from the way the outlook looks
That's where he's going to stay.
And every morning he complains.
In peevish tones and sad :
"If I had brawn instead of brains
I'd be as rich as dad!"
— James J. Montague
in 'More Truth Than Poetry," published by Doran Co.
Alcohol and vaseline are now the principal lines in the
It's a long road that has no roadhouse.
"I may have been a bad woman —
but I was good company 1 "
MICKEY TOOK NO CHANCES
I went to a funeral the other day.
Now, kiddos, don't get me down as belonging- to the
Ancient and Honorable Order of Funeral Followers.
By no means is your little Editor like one of my minis-
terial friends who goes to funerals just for the ride.
In this case, it was the funeral of my good brother soak
and years-old pal, Mickey McCloud.
Mickey died about two months ago at this writing,
and he died happy. I'm wishing myself the same kind
of a shuffle-off. He was over sixty years old; he had
HOT DOG 15
seen a lot of the world ; he had known both poverty and
affluence ; he had consorted much with women and liquor ;
most of all he was reconciled to death and he took the
Great Plunge laughingly.
I was at his bedside just as the old boy was passing
3Ut. Fellers, you ought to have seen how gaily he took it.
Mickey's wife sent out for a preacher.
The preacher came and said : "My friend you had better
renounce the devil."
"Renounce the devil," blurted Mickey, "pipe down on
that stuff brother. I aint in no position to make any
enemies right now."
Here's to the good young girls,
Who often have been sung,
Those valiant, virtuous pearls
We're told to be among;
Their praise is on my tongue,
I boost the sweet, well-bred ones —
But then, the Good die young —
And who in hell wants dead ones?
Little Ignatz's idea of the softest job on earth: Deck
hand on a Submarine.
Dear Mrs. Dingleberry : What is a woman's central at-
traction? — Danny Devil
* * *
Dear Mrs. Dingleberry: How is hash made? — Sal Stew
It isn't made. It accumulates.
* * *
Regretful Rose: How could you?
* * *
Dear Mrs. Dingleberry : What is the first thing a fat lady
does when she enters a theatre on a hot day?
— Jack Jumpup.
She takes off her hat and pants.
* * *
Dear Mrs. Dingleberry. I keep all my food in the cellar
HOT D OG 17
in summer using no ice whatever. What do you think?
Heaven loves a virtuous woman.
* * *
Sally Smush: He might!
* * *
Dear Mrs. Dingleberry : I'm a good girl. I am a won-
derful actress. I have been at Hollywood for five years
trying to break into the movies but without success.
What do you think is the reason for my failure?
— Cleo Crummy.
The first sentence in your letter.
* * *
Bereaved Bessie: Wasn't it worth it?
Dear Mrs. Dingleberry : I am passionately in love
with a young man and he spurns me. Please, please
tell me how to win him. — Mildred Muck.
Let his pal buy you silk stockings.
* * *
Dear Mrs. Dingleberry : I go to an osteopoth twice a
week to get tuned up and my mother disapproves of it.
what do you think? — Gertie Gump.
Read "Night Life in Paris," by Paul deKock and you
won't need to go to the Osteopath.
* * *
Buggy Bertha : Make him marry you or hook his watch.
* * *
Dear Mrs. Dingleberry : I am nineteen years old and
have just married a millionaire aged seventy seven.
What shall I do to make my marriage happy?
— Sallie Softstuff.
Move next door to a pool room.
* * *
Delicious Dolly: Make him buy you the fur coat first.
EXAMPLE OF THE FAMOUS
Sir Eric Stonehenge-Buckingham was noted for his
ready wit. In fact, many of the chroniclers of doings in
the House of Commons during the Victorian period have
recorded the unfailing incisiveness of his impromptus.
One day, during Gladstone's premiership, a fiery Liber-
al whip was putting the finishing touches to an eloquent
speech in defense of Irish Home Rule.
"And what," rhetorically demanded the Liberal, "will
be the result if we give Home Rule to Ireland?"
Sir Eric half rose from his bench and drawled :
"Sir, in that case, the Irish will govern themselves!"
Tories and Liberals alike shouted "Huzzah" in ap-
probation of the excellent jest.
, THE WORKING GIRL AND THE
A Heartrending Tale
by Callimachus Balzoff, the Hot Dog Genuis
It was a beautiful evening in the middle of February.
The sleet was pouring down like macaroni from an Or-
gan Grinder's mouth. The slush was slushing underfoot.
Bertha Blooie, a sweet and virtuous maid of nineteen
summers (more or less) was Walking the Dog. She had
just left the Doughnut Foundry where she sweated for
her Coffee And. She was on her way to her Modest and
Inaccessible Hall Bedroom on Montmorency Street.
Bertha was a Good Girl. Of course, you know what a
Good Girl is. A, Good Girl is a girl who never has any
Fun — as far as the neighbors know. Well, Bertha w r as a
Bertha's reputation for Virtue was known throughout
the town. She wore Highneck Waists and Heavy Wool
Underwear. She was the Leading Light of the Baracca
Class. If one of the Gent Members of the Class dared to
invite her to have a Banana Split she would Smack him in
the Mouth. Then she would take the Pastor into a dark
corner and tell him how she had Resisted Temptation.
This would take an hour.
Bertha's favorite Indoor Sport was Resisting Tempta-
As we believe we said before, Bertha was a Good Girl.
Now a Good Girl never, of course, goes automobile
riding with strangers.
But this was a dark and snowy night. It was seven
miles from the Doughnut Foundry to Montmorency.
Street and Bertha had covered only three of the seven
Along came Harold DeBawtch, Second Vice President
and Comptroller of the Doughnut Foundry. He was
chugging along in his Limousine.
HOT DOG 21
"Bertha, my Dear," cooed Harold, "to be walking on
such a snowy night. Come into my limousine and I will
drive you home."
"Say Kookoo, "replied Bertha, "maybe you haven't
heard the old tale about the Spider and the Fly. But I
have and the fable has soaked itself under my hairnet.
Not for Li'l Bertha. I'd rather wiggle my Dogs and re-
tain my Virtue."
"But my dear. Surely you would not suspect me, your
employer, your friend, your fellow-member of the Baracca
Class, of any Immoral Intentions. And besides, it's such
a nasty night. Come in and I'll drive you home."
Alas, and alas. She got into the Limousine.
No sooner was the door of the Limousine closed, then
DeBawtch put his foot on the gas and Forgot about the
Sixty miles an hour they went. Away, away past
When they were five miles beyond the City Limits,
Debawtch cracked his back teeth, stopped the car and
"Now, my Proud Beauty, you will Do as I Say or
"I will not do as you say," said Bertha. I don't do
"Then out you go ! 1" and the Villain bounced her
out on her ear.
Bertha started to walk. She walked and she walked.
22 HOT DOG
The mud underfoot was as thick as Sediment in Home
Brew. She began to cry.
Heaven intervened. When Bertha had covered about
two miles, a Roadster came chugging along in her direc-
tion. The Roadster stopped.
A familiar face peeped out. It was Aubrey Van Roon,
Third Vice President of the Doughnut Foundry.
"Why Bertha," purred Aubrey, walking on such a nasty
night. Come into my car. I see you are going my way.
"No Van Roon," replied Bertha, "you shall not Roon
me. I shall not Flop for your Sugarplum Line. I shall
"But Honey, why walk? I've got plenty of gas and my
Brakes are poor. Hop in. You know me, Cutie. I'm
a Good Scout."
A sly smile overspread Bertha's features. Even Vir-
tue has its resources. We shall see what we shall see.
Bertha climbed into the Roadster.
This Villain was like all Motor Villains of his ilk. No
sooner had the Good Girl got into the car, then Aubrey
took one hand from the steering wheel, put it around Ber-
tha's waist and Stepped on the Gas.
But, strange as it may seem, although Aubrey was Cop-
ping the Feels something outrageous, Bertha made no re-
sistance and said not a word.
Not a word said she till she got good and ready.
When they had been riding about half an hour, Bertha
was Good and Ready.
Without any warning, she opened her Gab.
"Van Roon, you Skunk," said she, "you low down Lin-
gerie Hound. I believe you have Immoral Intentions to-
ward me. Know then that they won't pan out any more
than Czchekoslovak marks in Petrograd. If you are Af-
ter Something in return for the ride — Buddy you're All
Wrong. I'm a Good Girl, I am ! !"
Allright, you Stingy Broad," sneered Aubrey, GET
OUT AND WALK!"
Bertha got out.
A smile played all over her Buck Teeth.
For the signpost on the corner read MONTMOR-
An Elegy to our Dead in France
by Robert W. Service
For oh, when the War will be over,
We'll go and we'll look for our dead,
HOT DOG 25
We'll go when the bee's on the clover,
And the plume of the poppy is red ;
We'll go when the year's at its gayest,
When meadows are laughing with flowers,
And there, where the crosses are grayest,
We'll seek for the cross that is ours.
And so, when the war v/ill be over,
We'll seek for the Wonderful One,
And maiden will look for her lover,
And mother will look for her son ;
And there will be end to our grieving,
And gladness will gleam over loss.
And — glory beyond all believing!
We'll point — to a name on a cross.
(With acknowledgments to Barse & Hopkins, publishers)
SAID SHE TO HIM!
We've oft been told by bluenose friars
That wishing and the deed were one,
That heaven punishes desires
As if the deed were done.
If that is true then you and I
Are damned to heart's content
So since at best we won't get by —
Let's have some pleasure for our punishment.
Lizzie McCarthy, our skinny stenographer ate an olive
and the next day six men left town.
Pok Negri m the Paramount Picture .'The Last Payment'
Sensatinal has been the rise of Pola. She was born
Paula Schwartz of a humble Jewish family in Poland.
First as a dancer, then as a violinist, she vamped and
tantalized the gay boys of the European capitals till she
reached her present position — the most piquant cutie on
How'd you like to buy socks for her?
HOT DOG 27
THE MOVIE RAMBLER
by Harry McMurray
Somehow or other the deep-stuff daddies of the movies
have lately annexed the bug into their acorns that we
want Problem Plays with Morals.
Where do they get it?
As for me, I don't. Trot me a sweet patootie onto the
screen with big goo-goo eyes ; give me a plot with plenty
of surprise situations and plenty of humor and I'm satis-
List to the titles of some of the recent confections :
What Do Men Want? Why Girls Go Wrong. What
Do Women Want?
Ha ha and hee hee. I know the answer without seeing
the Drammer. So do you, kiddos. Hot Dog !
That reminds me that some time ago a Kansas City
paper ran a prize contest for men offering $5000 for the
best answer to the question, "What is the best thing in
the world?" The editor got 41,347 answers and they
were all identically the same.
On the opposite page I am giving you a peep at Pola
Negri, the new German vamp who has worked her
way into my hard-boiled cardiac artery and grabbed a
Half-Nelson on my heart.
Most of the furrin movies I haven't liked. Especially,
the much-tooted Cabinet of Dr. Caligari was a frost.
They told the family people from the suburbs that it was
Art and the family people fell for the hokum and boosted-
28 HOT DOG
But I found the Caligari picture pretty dull stuff. It
was just a disconnected series of episodes.
But as to Pola. Oh Boy, what a mean pair of optics
she wiggles !
IGNATZ AT THE HORNS OF THE DILEMA
Dear readers, if you got your last month's Hot Dog late
blame it on Little Ignatz, our Shipping Clerk.
The cove has been ambling about the warehouse lately
with his lamps fixed yearningly on the stars.
The Dummy keeps repeating mysterious words.
First we thought he was in love. But that wasn't it.
The truth petered out. Ignatz is studying Phrenology.
He has absorbed the notion into his bamboo that he can
learn to read your character from the bumps on your nut.
Having received some score of dirty letters from our
newsdealers regarding late shipments, we made a trek out
to the warehouse.
There was Ignatz, with the soulful look in his eyes,
tossing a coin.
"Hey crum !" we yelped, "do you think the well-known
Merit Pub. Co. is an Eleemosinary Institution ? In other
words have you annexed the sweet sentiment that we are
paying you your beer money for nothing?"
"Well Boss," replied Ignatz, "it's like this. I've got a
date with a neat rolled sock tonight and also my Phren-
ology examination comes tonight. I tossed the coin to
decide where I'm going to go."
"How did the toss come out?" we asked him.
"Heads," tittered Ignatz. "I'm going to the Phrenolo-
The Profoundest Joke Ever Printed in Hot Dog
You may have to ponder on this one for three months,
but it's worth it.
The heroic spy tried five times to penetrate into the ene-
my's lines. Five times he was rudely booted forth, till
the basement of his pants was deeply indented with enor-
Picking himself up, and bravely starting up the guard-
ed path for the sixth time, our hero murmured :
"My one regret is that I have but one * for my country."
30 HOT DOG
by Jazbo De Vinney
Just when a fellow is trying to forget the Bug known
as Baseball, or the National Pastime and he thinks he
has a whole outfit stored away in mothballs to overcome
the occasional stink, it breaks out again like the measles.
And there is an aitch of a row.
At this time about the most unpopular dude in the
business is Harry Frazee, owner of the Boston American
League Club. Harry has some so-called theater com-
panies besides his ball club. The theater companies
aren't making enough to keep Harry in postage. He
needs jack and he lets go a couple of his swell pitchers
to the New York Yankees for a slew of gloves and a bat.
Then he arranges to ship his first baseman, Stuffy Mcln-
nis, to Cleveland for Elmer Smith, George Burns and Joe
Then the fans up in Boston, they yell Bloody Murder
and they say they ain't going to play with Harry any
more. They say Harry just rooined their Ball Club and
the name of their fair city as a baseball village.
The racket is as plain as the bulge on a bootlegger's
hip. The New York moguls have the Big Idea. They
say "Boo" and Mister Frazee jumps through the well
known hoop. They ship a coupla castoffs for the star
Be sure to observe Arbor Day this year. Remember
Wood Alcohol comes from the trees.
pitchers. Then they let him send Mclnnis away for
Smith and Burns and Harris. They know that if they
need any hitters all they need to do is to reach over into
Boston and grab Smith, Burns or Harris and Frazee
won't have nothing to say. He don't dare.
It's a great racket if you are hep ; Cleveland to Boston
to New York.
So there you see where the old 1922 pennant will flicker
over the Polo Grounds for the Yanks again. The Bank
Roll talks and it is talking Turkey to Frazee.
But what about the Dude who kicks in every afternoon
all summer long to get in to see a flock of bums run
The Girl I Left Behind Me is Away Ahead of Me Now.
32 HOT DOG
around the bases? What are they slipping him? You
don't read of any rush to cut down the price of admission
to help nurse along the dwindling bank roll of the Bloke
who stands in line at the turnstile every day. Nix, nix,
He pays and pays big and then the Mogul tosses away his
dough in the winter for bushers and to keep from paying
the war tax on excess profits. Yea, verily, it is a great
racket if you are hep.
Anyhow there are a couple of more months to go yet
before the National Scandal breaks loose again on the
greensward and the poor hicks fall over themselves to
get a chance to plank down their dough for ducats for
the opening shame.
Old man Barnum was not so far wrong when he said
there was one born every minute. He meant second
instead of minute for My Gawd they sure do multiply
So, old boy, you can dig down for a few berries for
your morning paper and be bunked all winter on the
. operations of the Financial Giants who back the nation-
al pastime. Past is good. And then when the good
old Spring time rolls around the noble athletes will be
cackling over their own particular band of spavins and
win right then and there the old pennant. It is done
So stand in line boys and don't shove.
Headline from the Brownsville, (Tex). International
Two American Girls Attacked Below the Border
—is the cTWilk of
Hotter and Bigger!
The next (March) number of the Dog will be
very much enlarged in size.
Your regular-fellow reception of the first six
numbers has so filled in the hollows in my Pants
that I can afford to be generous.
Also, I have unearthed some swell new talent,
fresh from 4he bushes.
Also, since the Dog has become such a success,
I have been shoving vittles into my mush regular,
with the result that the inspiration flows more
freely than it did in the skinny days of yore. A
little hot stuff of my own will be on tap besides
that of the Stalwart Staff.
I think the March number of Hot Dog will
be the Cats Whiskers right. The best yet.
So, on or around the 20th of the month, sleep
near your news stand.
JACK DINSMORE, Editor